


Paying a Penance

by goddessofcruelty



Series: Heroes [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comeplay, Discipline, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1675589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofcruelty/pseuds/goddessofcruelty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And now Phil is noticing the corded muscle of Clint's incredible arms, and the strength in those fingers. Clint Barton's hands are criminal. They should be outlawed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying a Penance

Phil Coulson's super power is to be ordinary.

You'd never pick him out of any crowd as the odd one out. He can blend in anywhere.

Coulson is mild-mannered but no pushover. Often calm but not emotionless.

He's special because he's not special.

Coulson is also thorough and notices _everything_.

Right now he's noticing the way Hawkeye's leather pants are hugging his ass as the archer takes a step back and pulls his bow.

And now Phil is noticing the corded muscle of Clint's incredible arms, and the strength in those fingers. Clint Barton's hands are criminal. They should be outlawed.

“Is there a reason we're staring at Hawkeye's ass, Coulson?”

Natasha is always trying to get a rise out of him, needling him about Clint as if she knew something.

She doesn't. Phil is absolutely positive he's never given anything away.

“His reaction time is almost a half second slow. I think he was hurt on that last mission and he is hiding it.”

Her expression changes, minisculely, but it's something. And now Coulson knows he's right. He also knows that he can't be the one to handle it.

“You'll speak with him.” It's halfway between a request and an order.

Tasha nods. “I'll handle it.”

Coulson hopes she reads Clint the riot act. All he wants to do is find whatever it is, and make it all better.

_Or make it worse._

Phil squelches that thought before it starts. That particular secret was even deeper than his inability to stop ogling Hawkeye.

Phil writes in the file he's holding, makes himself look busy. He keeps a piece of legal pad paper clipped to the inside of everyone's file, and makes notes about them in his own personal code.

The things he writes about Clint Barton should never see the light of day.

Because instead of performance reviews, there are physical observations about Clint.

Some about his ass, which is damn near perfect. Many about his arms and hands, and the way Coulson would love to see him opening himself up with those fingers. Or watching Clint's arms flex while trying to hold on to a ring in the wall during a whipping.

It helps Phil get through the day. Most days.

Apparently today it's not going to be enough.

Because Clint's tugging of his leather vest and the shirt beneath and for a minute Phil's mind completely blanks out. Fortunately, he doesn't give anything away. Natasha would have noticed and jumped on it.

Phil forces himself back under control, although he does let his eyes rake along Clint exactly once, to save for later. Tight black leather pants, the planes of his stomach muscles...and then the memory storing grinds to a halt, because Clint turns, and Coulson can see the purple-black bruising along his lower back.

He must make some sound this time, because _now_ Natasha is tilting her head at him. She follows his gaze, and hers sharpens to steel.

Coulson is glad she's taken the initiative because he's not sure he can move right now, and what's he's thinking isn't even close to appropriate.

One of his agents is obviously hurt, maybe even a broken rib, by the looks of that bruising, and all Phil Coulson can think is how much they look like cane marks, and how much more he wishes he had been the one to mark up Clint’s pretty skin like that.

He forces himself to stay in place, to look mildly concerned when Natasha drags Clint over for a scolding. Phil is proud of the way his voice remains steady.

“That explains the slowdown in reaction time.”

Clint lifts his chin in defiance, and Coulson _absolutely_ does not think about how he'd react to Clint being a brat behind closed doors.

“I'm still better than anyone else in the entire world.”

The way Clint says it, it almost seems like he's desperate for approval. Coulson wants nothing more than to give it to him, to tell him how precious he is, to see how he would respond to praise.

But that's just what Coulson wants to hear in Clint's voice, not what's actually there reality. Clint is _far_ too proud for anything like that.

So Coulson merely arches an eyebrow and says calmly. “Not good enough.”

He turns to Natasha, turns his back on Clint, because he can't fucking _look_ at those marks anymore.

“Make sure he gets to the infirmary.”

Phil leaves without saying another word, barely breathing until he gets into his office and shuts and locks the door.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he whispers to the empty room.

He leans his head back against the door and finally lets himself think about Clint laying splayed over his desk, about the way the leather would pull against his muscles, the way those marks would stand out against the pale skin.

Before he knows it, Phil is tugging down his zip, sliding his hand inside and pulling free his half-hard cock.

Phil imagines peeling those too-tight pants down, leaving them bunched across Clint's thighs, telling him how perfect and slutty he looks like that. He would grab a ruler from inside his desk and flick it across that perfect ass, make his own marks on the archer's flesh.

Coulson's breathing increases pace as he falls further into this fantasy, his hand moving along himself just so, thumb swiping over the leaking tip, lubricating himself with his own fluids.

Phil would make sure to tell Clint how perfect he's being, as the younger man counts out the blows. He can just hear Clint's sexy voice, rough with lust, offering up a _thank you_ for his discipline.

The agent bites his lip to keep from moaning aloud as he thinks about parting Clint's cheeks, about teasing his tight little hole with a thumb, about the pleading noises he'd make as Phil slowly opens him up.

About the way that the younger man would feel when Phil finally slid inside him, the soft whine as Coulson teases him, going too slow for him to find release. And the way he'd make Clint beg for it, bring that arrogant cocky boy to his knees.

On his knees...

Oh and now his mind is switching tracks because _yes_ , if there's one thing that Phil Coulson wants more than to fuck Clint Barton across his desk, it's to have the boy on his knees, _begging_ to suck him off.

Phil imagines Clint locking his arms behind him, wide eyes looking up, and that smart ass mouth of his opening on command. He can almost feel that hot, wet heat closing around him, the pressure of Clint sucking, all the _filthy_ things he would whisper as he fucked the archer's mouth. He thinks about grabbing fistfuls of that ridiculously spiked hair and holding himself all the way in, about fucking down into Clint's throat, about watching those smirking eyes fill with tears because he's struggling for breath.

And about how those same eyes would fill with adoration, when Phil told him what a good boy he was being, how proud he was of Clint.

Coulson imagines positioning him, bent backwards, hands gripping ankles so that his chest and stomach and cock would be on perfect display. He would stand over him, stroking himself off slowly as he watches Clint struggle to hold himself there, the way that his thigh muscles would tense and relax, the way his stomach would flutter each time he took a quick breath.

Phil would come all over Clint, marking him that way, making his claim. He would rub his fluids into Clint's skin, especially the dick that would be standing at attention through all of this.

Phil would slide his hand along the younger man's length, would make him finish while holding that position, would make him wait, fight against the orgasm until given permission. And then Clint would explode, spilling at Coulson's command.

And that's the thought that does it, that sends Coulson over the edge, gritting his teeth against noise as he spurts streams of white onto the carpet in front of him.

He gives himself exactly sixty seconds to recover, and then tucks himself away, rights his suit, and strides over to his desk.

Coulson finds some napkins and cleans up his mess, before settling down at his desk and returning to his paperwork.

He allows himself a moment of sadness for what will never be, then compartmentalizes it, puts it away for a time when he is free to wallow in his self-pity.

Right now, Phil Coulson has an agency to run.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration: Long Long Way From Home by Foreigner
> 
> Please let me know if I need to tag anything. <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](goddessofcruelty.tumblr.com)


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